


Not What You Expected

by EclipseWing



Series: defende nos in proelio [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU Dark Side of the Moon, But I fell back into SPN and someone requested this so, Dean as Michael/Michael as Dean, Gen, Sam as Lucifer/Lucifer as Sam, i have exams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseWing/pseuds/EclipseWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Sam is Lucifer and Dean is Michael, but some people obviously didn't get the memo.</p><p>Sort-of sequel to 'Unlikely Places'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not What You Expected

**Author's Note:**

> I never intended a sequel, and I shouldn't be writing I have exams looming (but this was kind of fun, maybe).

Sam wakes to the pumping of a shotgun.

There are several questions of which come to his mind. Surprisingly the first is not why are there two masked men pointing shotguns at him and his brother, but more along the lines of _why_ was he even asleep to begin with? He's an archangel. Sleep is for the _weak_.

The weak. And tired. And worn down after he and Dean burnt their way through a small hoarde of demons.

But they're archangels. It should be like treading on ants.

Sam pulls a face. Maybe they're getting rusty after so long with their Grace locked up.

He manages to get into a half-sitting, half-lying position before the shotgun is being waved threateningly, "Don't move!" one of their assailants growls out.

Across from him where for all his archangel glory, Dean had also evidently passed out on the covers not even bothering to remove his shoes, his brother narrows his eyes. He looks pissed off, although whether it's from the two masked guys breaking into their rundown motel room, or if it's because they woke him up Sam can't tell.

"Hands where I can see them," one of the masked assailants - and Sam really hesitates to use that word, neither look very threatening - waves his shotgun around.

"Hang on," Dean blinks, and of course his older brother makes the two after only hearing them say eight words, "Roy? That you?" his eyes narrow and he does the typical angel head-tilt. Sam bets he doesn't even know he's doing it. Probably picked up the habit from Cas. "That makes you Walt," Dean's glare is slowly turning murderous. Frankly Sam is surprised Roy isn't spontaneously combusting already.

With an awkward pause the men remove their mask. They don't drop the shotguns.

"You seem happy to see us," Dean remarks, sounding remarkably chirpy for someone who looks like he's doing his best to stab the pair with his mind.

"Should we be?" Walt says, and yes - Sam isn't mistaken - his hands are trembling slightly, "We heard you let the Devil out of his box."

"Well technically..." Sam says, but Walt interrupts.

"You flipped the Apocalypse on switch and you thought you could just get away with it?"

"There's isn't..." Dean tries to explain, but the pair aren't having any of it.

"We aren't the only hunters after ya'," Roy says, "We're just the first to put you down."

"Put us down?" Dean's says slowly. And the pair must be idiots to miss the ice in his words.

"Well, mostly Sam," Walt says, gaze sliding to Sam, "But there comes a time when some hunters cross the line between hunter and monster and... well... way I heard was you two had both crossed that line a long time ago."

" _Bad_ idea," Sam says, voice light but the warning is deadly serious, "We've got angels and demons on our ass and you want to off us?"

The pair looks hesitant, exchanging a silent glance. As if they didn't before. "Someone has to," Walt says.

Dean leans forwards, ignoring the splutters to "Stay down", "You sure buckshot is going to do the trick?" he asks, and there's something in his tone that has Sam's muscles tensing.

Several things happen at the same time.

Someone's finger slips, sweaty and shaking on the trigger. It's hard to tell who, both Roy and Walt look equally likely. A gunshot rings out.

Sam lurches to one side, half skidding, half rolling off the bed to dodge it.

At that movement there is another, reflexive trigger pull and a second shot. This one hits him full in the chest as he stands, reaching for his gun.

What can he say? Angel powers or not, old habits die hard. He brings the gun up and ready.

At the same time Dean throws himself off his bed. His wings snap out, bronze and gold flames and one second he's there then next he's half-way across the room, his hand around Roy's throat and slamming him backwards against a wall.

Roy dangles there, feet a few good inches off the ground. The shotgun drops from his hands and he chokes. Dean's gaze is icy cold, his eyes burning the same cold white-light that the amulet around his neck is. His wings are outspread, intimidating and although the humans can't see the feathers, they can see the shadow cast on the wall. The shadow of Michael’s wings span a good twenty feet or so, and completely fill the small motel room for several flashes before fading, but not before both assailants have gone deathly pale.

"Ow," Sam says, although it is slightly delayed. There is buckshot through him. Well, it _hit_ him. Like a fly knocking into him. It is more of a nuisance than anything. And okay, it didn't really hurt, but he liked to pretend it did, even as he shakes his shirt off.

There are holes in it. Tiny, pellet-shaped tears in the fabric. He pulls a face, "I liked this shirt as well," he mourns.

Dean is still rage and fury and fire, glaring at the hunters like he's considering how best to punish them. Michael is Judgement after all, although he really shares that role with Gabriel. He's law and justice and the archangel of warriors everywhere.

He's also terrifying. Roy looks like he's about to puke or wet himself. He might have already, but Sam doesn't really want to pay that much attention.

"I don't think shotgun pellets are gonna’ cut it," Dean drawls, words casual but his voice like thunder in the air, "Gonna’ need something with a _bit_ more power than that."

For a second he looks like he's going to roast the guy right there. Burn him up - Michael always did have a thing for fire - or maybe sending him exploding into several gory pieces. But then with a sigh Dean steps back, hand dropping. With a crash Roy tumbles to the floor. Walt turns his shotgun to Dean, who just looks at him.

Walt sizes up Sam with his gun pointed at his head and Dean whose eyes are still angel-lit, even if the wing shadows have gone and then does the sensible thing.

He drops the shotgun, hands flying into the air.

"Good boy," Dean taunts, eyes finally fading back to green, "Now which one do I kill, and which one do I leave alive to pass on the word that we're..." he pauses, searching for a word.

"Not hunt-able," Sam says, "Also, there's no Apocalypse. Just sayin', the Horsemen aren't riding, Gabriel's not blowing the trumpet..."

"I think he lost it," Dean shrugs, "Well, he claims to have lost it, but he said he lost his sword too and I found it in the bottom of some pond in England."

Sam narrows his eyes because 'bottom of some pond' sounds familiar but he can't remember why. Oh well. "Let them go," he shrugs, "Not worth it."

"Not worth it?" Dean sounds aghast, "Lucy Luke _brother_ , they tried to hurt you. Nobody's allowed to hurt you but me."

There were issues with that, but honestly Sam doesn't mind. That probably speaks volumes to how messed up they are. There's too much Dean and Sam mixed into the Michael and Lucifer. It's ridiculous. Their time as mortals was nothing more than a grain of sand in a desert as to how old they are, but it changed everything.

Michael and Lucifer _are_.

They _exist_.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Dean and Sam are _human_ and _flawed_ and _broken_ and they've torn themselves down and back up again until Sam is pretty sure they've practically reinvented co-dependency.

"They're not worth it," Sam shrugs, "I'm fine, you're fine, my shirt on the other hand is _not_ fine..."

"Your shirt's _fine_ ," Dean rolls his eyes, and with a hand wave it is stitched back together. "Hang on," Dean pauses, taking in the shirt he just fixed, “Is that the awful one that looks white but is actually pink and flowery"

He looks like he's considering tearing it up again and Sam steps away from his brother, tugging at the fabric, "It's not the same," he mumbles, "It smells all..." he pauses, sniffing at the fabric, ignoring Dean's "Dude!". "It smells all grace-y," he says. “And the weave is all wrong.”

"How can things smell like Grace?" Dean asks, oblivious to the two hunters still standing there shivering.

"It just does, okay?" Sam glares at Walt who quails under his glare. Rightly so. He liked this shirt.

"I'm going to let them live just on principle for ruining that god-awful shirt," Dean mumbles, stepping back. With a sigh he waves a hand, "Shoo," he says, "We see another hunter trying to kill us or maim us or set up some sort of twisted trap I'm going to rip them out of existence. Got it?"

Two mute, shaky nods.

"Well?" Dean huffs, "What are you waiting for? Skedaddle."

It is quite something, Sam muses, watching Michael, general of the heavenly host, tell two terrified hunters to 'skedaddle', and then watching as they proceed to do so, tripping over each other and nearly falling over twice in their haste to get out. They also leave their shotguns where they had dropped them.

Sam scoops them up, "Cool," he says, "New shotguns. Salt is hell on the barrel."


End file.
